


Tabula Rasa

by sumhowe_sailing



Category: Sumhowe
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Soulmate AU, mentions of violence but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9789833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: You know that soulmate au thing where the name of your true love is tattooed somewhere on your body? This is that.





	

He didn't know what started the riot. Nor, if he was being honest, did he much care. It had been a boring week and jumping into the middle of this mess was just something to do. He wasn't sure how much help he could be; no sooner had he pried apart one tangled set of flailing limbs and moved on to the next, than some other idiots showed up to start beating the ones he had just left behind. At some point, he realized he could serve a better purpose. Instead of trying to break up the fighting, he started looking for those who were clearly down to see what he could do for them. He had half-dragged, half-carried a handful of people out of the thick of it already by the time he saw the brick smash into someone's head.

He rushed over to see if there was anything he could do. To his surprise, the man who had taken the blow was already trying to get back on his feet. That kind of impact would have knocked any normal person unconscious at once--Sam was impressed by this man's resilience. He knelt by his side, one hand firmly on the man's shoulder to keep him seated for a few minutes. He urged him to be still, then to go home. The man eyed him with more clarity than anyone who had just been practically brained should have been able to manage.

"I'm staying until this is cleared up," was all he said.

"As a doctor, I have to recommend--"

"And as someone clearly wounded but still involved?" Sam was taken aback by this. For the first time, he surveyed himself. The man was right. He hadn't even noticed himself bleeding and couldn't explain how it had happened if he tried. Not that it made a difference. Well, the man had a point.

"At least let me look at that bump, will you?"

"Thank you, Doctor--"

"Howe. Sam Howe."

"Thank you, Doctor Howe, I'd be much obliged."

As he carefully pulled the hair, already matted with blood, away from the wound, the man introduced himself as Charles Sumner. Sam got a little nearer to try to see the wound more clearly without being as jostled by the ongoing riot. He was almost satisfied with what he saw until he noticed something that did not look quite right. Peering closer still, he saw that the thin lines, which he had at first taken to be more hair or some kind of skin deformity, were letters. He knew it was none of his business--what could this man's love-life possibly have to do with him?--but curiosity got the better of him. Brushing his thumb carefully over the area to wipe away some of the blood, he froze as he made out his own name on this man's scalp. He swallowed hard, and stood up, stretching his hand out to help Charles to his feet.

"Well, you'll live." Then, before Charles could disappear back into the crowd, he impulsively added, "Though I would like you to stay near me through this--so I can keep an eye on you if that gets worse."  
Charles considered him for a moment before nodding gravely. So, side by side, they fought on.

 

Pacing his room that night, Sam tried to figure out  _why_  seeing "Samuel" scrawled beneath all that blood had affected him as it had. He had no ridiculous notions about men being together, it was not that. True, it was his name, but that should not mean a thing--he could scarcely walk down the street without bumping into another Samuel. The thought that  _he_  could be the Sam the writing referred to was almost laughable, it was so improbable that he should meet his soulmate thus. And yet... hadn't the man's name been Charles? It was a name that had been burned into his mind since the day he'd first seen it, just a few inches above his knee, when he was a boy.

He remembered that time vividly. His father had been dropping hints for months that he must ask every young lady he met their name. He hadn't understood, though his mother had tried to explain it--it had seemed so absurd, so...impossible. And then one day, there it was. A little blotch, like an ink stain, where there had never been anything before. He'd shown his father, thinking perhaps it would make him happy. And, for a day or two, it had. But as the blotch shrank and faded, leaving only a few distinct letters behind, his father's excitement turned to fury.

"No son of mine," he had declared in his iciest tone as he raised the switch, "is going to be so  _unnatural_."

He had had plenty more to say, plenty worse to say, and plenty of time in which to say it. For weeks his father beat him relentlessly, as if it would somehow change the blot to something more acceptable. As if Sam had had a choice. Eventually his anger took a more subdued, but no less painful, form. His father wanted nothing to do with him. After making Sam swear never to tell anybody about it, he did not bring the subject up again. Still, the periodic beatings with no apparent provocation were evidence enough that he had not forgotten--or forgiven--Sam's unintentional defect.

It wasn’t just his father either. For the most part, it was easy to conceal this secret; sometimes, however, it took all his powers of dissimulation to avoid baring it to other boys. Sometimes they found out anyway. Not often—he was too careful—but often enough for him to realize that his father was far from alone in his feelings about it. Once in college someone had snuck into his room as a prank and found the name while Sam was sleeping. He’d been woken by a sharp blow to the gut. The ensuing fight had been rough; in spite of his disadvantage, though, Sam had come out on top.

It was not all bad. There had been a few occasions when this revelation had led to an entirely different type of wrestling. These incidents, almost all of which had taken place during his time in Greece, had erased any lingering traces of doubt or shame his father had taught him. There were not many left to erase though. He had had a lot of time to think about it. His father thought him “unnatural”, but if there was some higher power making these decisions, wasn’t abiding by those decisions as natural as anything? If this was his fate, why fight it? Wouldn’t giving in to the prejudice and imbibing the shame, denying an important part of himself, be more unnatural by far?

 

A few years after the riot, Sam was emptying a bottle of wine into Charlie's glass and asking if he would stay the night. It was an unlikely friendship--they were so different in so many ways--but already one of the most enjoyable he'd ever known. It had been slow to bloom at first, mostly because Charles had been in Europe for so long at the start of it, but now it was thriving. There was nothing he looked forward to more than a long drive into the country with him, followed up by just such an evening as this.

Charles sat in Sam's favorite chair, his feet in Sam's slippers, smiling sweetly as he sipped his wine. Sam was admiring him, as usual, while trying to appear to be looking at something else. He hadn't noticed it so much when they had first met, but Charles was an incredibly handsome man. Of course, that alone did not amount to much. Sam admired him more for his character, for his bravery, his faithful devotion and warm friendship, for his principles--he had to check this train of thought. If he didn't, it might go on forever.

He had not forgotten the word he had seen that first day they'd met. For a very long time, he had simply tried not to think about it. But when Charles had returned, when he'd realized just how much he enjoyed his company, when he felt his heart yearning for Charles every time he needed comfort or wanted to share his joy, he'd had to accept that, yes, this was it. This Charles was almost certainly the one some strange agent of fate had assigned to him. And he was almost certainly his Samuel.

But he wasn't sure if Charles knew. He had never mentioned what he'd seen hidden beneath his hair that day. And although they had once or twice talked about the names some of their friends kept hidden, they had never spoken about their own. He had not even told Charles  _where_  his mark was, let alone what it said. And Charles hadn't breathed a word about his own. For a while he had been content with this. Letting things remain as they were had seemed the smartest option. Lately, though, he was not so sure 'smart' was what he was after.

As if reading his thoughts, Charles leaned forward, eyes sparkling and a playful smile about his lips, and asked if Sam had heard that one of their widowed friends had found a new blotch recently.

"Is it anyone he knows?"

"Who can say? He hasn't told anybody what it says, yet. And it isn't anywhere obvious, so it wouldn't exactly be easy to find out."

Sam was impatient with conversations like these. He knew Charles was fascinated by other people's love lives, but Sam didn't care to hear about it. He was about to change the subject--then decided it was time. Nothing had to change, necessarily, but he wanted to have this out in the open.

"And what about you?"

"Me?" Charles blinked, and sat slowly back in the chair. "What about me?"

"Have you ever told anyone what  _your_  mark says?"

"Ah," Charles sighed. "No. I seem to be fated to die alone."

"What do you mean?" This was not an answer Sam had expected.

"I am a  _tabula rasa_ , a blank slate any name may still be written upon."

Sam scrutinized him for any sign of embarrassment or disingenuousness--but all he saw was a mournful, wistful look. Charles really believed that. He really didn't know. Well, that explained why  _he_  at least had kept his silence.

“Suppose,” Sam said carefully, still unsure of how far to commit himself, “you just haven’t seen it yet?”

“Well,” Charles forced a laugh, “then I don’t think I’m likely to. I’ve searched nearly everywhere.”

“But you would like to know what it would say? No matter what it was, you would want to know?”

Charles nodded and stared into his wine. After a while, he muttered softly, almost as if to himself, “All I want, Chev, is someone to love. Someone who can love me in return.”

There was such longing in his voice as he said this that Sam wondered how a heart so full of love could believe itself empty. He hesitated only a moment more, before taking the final plunge.

“Dear Charlie, you are loved, I assure you.”

“Friends and siblings are all very well, but I wish—I want—”

“I never told you,” Sam cut him off to spare him the effort of putting his desire into words, “my first impression of you, did I?”

Charles eyed him warily. He realized this must sound like he was trying to change the subject, but he could not think how else to go about it.

“Do you remember that nasty bump on the head you got that day?” He waited for the nod before pressing on. “And do you remember that I would not let you up until I had examined it?” Another nod. Sam hesitated again; this was more difficult than he’d anticipated. Then, he crossed the room to stand beside Charles, wondering if the proximity might help. He touched the spot on the crown of his head—a spot he had thought about so often he did not even question it, he knew exactly where it was—and said softly, “It was just here, do you remember? And under all that hair and all that blood, do you know what I saw?”

 Charles looked sharply up at him, with an expression torn between hope, disbelief, and –what? Was it fear? Resignation? Sam couldn’t tell. Before he could continue with his little story, Charles spoke.

“Don’t toy with me, Sam, not about this. Do not invent something to make me feel better; it will only be more disappointing in the end.”

“You don’t believe me?” He arched an eyebrow at Charles, who blushed in response.

“I know you have the best of intentions, but—“

“My intention,” Sam asserted, “is for you to know the truth. To explain why I was so drawn to you even then, why I did not want you to leave my side.” The bewilderment on Charles’ face was not reassuring. He did not want to have to say everything, but it looked like he might have to. “I did not _know_ then if I was your Samuel; I only hoped I might be. After all,” he added, reaching down to tap the corresponding spot on his leg, “I had been looking for my Charles for a very long time.”

He watched the confusion on his face intensify for a moment as he mouthed _your Charles_ , but gradually it seemed to dawn on him just what Sam was saying.

“Are you in earnest?”

“Never more so in my life.”

In the silence that ensued, Sam watched his expression shift from stunned amazement to outright joy. He jumped up from his seat, laughing, and quickly wrapped Sam in his arms. After overcoming his shock at the exuberance of this reaction, Sam heartily returned the embrace. As he stood there, wondering why on earth he had waited so long to tell Charles this, he heard Charles muttering by his ear, “Oh thank you, Sam, thank you—you have no idea how happy I am—it all makes so much sense—oh Chev.”

Only now, as relief flooded his body, did he realize how tense he had been during all this.  And yet, he was still dissatisfied with their scene. Something was missing.  Drawing back a little, he looked up into his dear Charlie’s face— _his_ Charlie—and knew. He stroked a finger along Charles’s cheek, tracing a graceful line down to his lips. He saw his eyes half close, lids fluttering slightly, as he relished the sensation. He slid his hand behind Charles’s neck, and drew him closer, eager to know how that sweet smile would feel against his own. There was nothing timid or bashful in this kiss: none of the awkwardness he had always felt when kissing someone for the first time. They fit together perfectly, an easy give and take that felt so natural it was as if they were made for each other. Which, of course, they were.


End file.
